


Time Stamp

by Candy_and_Ronnie



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Fluff, Gay, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-01-01 01:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18326003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candy_and_Ronnie/pseuds/Candy_and_Ronnie
Summary: It's 1993, and Lana Bleu and her band, Californium, are coming into the common public view known as a revolutionary band with no genre. The critics state that their music has no decade, the people have deemed their music as "space blues," and the mystics have told them their music is from the future, but what happens when Lana and her timeless band are thrown back into 1962 with the world renown band, The Beatles? What happens when they bring their futuristic sound to the past? Who will fall in love?(There’s an original character in this who’s name is also John btw)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There’s an original character named John in this btw.

"Our music has no race, no culture, no genre, and most importantly, no decade assigned to it, because we make music for all the people."  
~Lana Bleu, Rolling Stone Magazine, 1995

 

May 21, 1993

 

By the time the train came around to Lana's station number, the group had already been far too dazed to even fully register the commencement of their travels. Daniel had been busy entertaining himself with sweeping under the vending machine for estranged coins and Tina had been busy half-heartedly trying to coax him off the dirty train station ground. As for John, well, he was haplessly hungover from the escapades of last night (early this morning) and was blankly staring at a little cockroach scuttling across the floor and to the opening Daniel's pant leg. John only utters a vengeful chuckle before falling back to sleep. 

The scene unfolds all at once as John jolted awake from his mid afternoon nap, Daniel banged his head on the bottom of the vending machine trying to shake /that thing/ from his pant leg, and the train came to a full screeching halt in front of them. The band's cumbersome guitar cases took up most of their cargo rather than the luggage itself which consisted of two duffle bags that held all of the band's practical possessions. Lana desperately tries to lug all of their things onto the train while the rest of the band composed themselves. First it is Tina on the train, dragging the remaining of their things. After which is Daniel who kept a firm grip on John's waist as he practically carries his dead weight onto the train. 

"I do believe this is the last of our junk."  
Daniel remarked, letting John fall into the pile of stuff. John bangs his head painfully on the edge of a seat, but only let out a discontented groan and laid his head on a duffle bag, falling asleep right then and there. The patrons of the train glared at the accumulation of things that now took up a significant amount of the train car. The space was getting steadily more crammed as people boarded the train stop by stop. 

Lana pushes John out of the way and begins to stack the luggage, making sure they are out of the way of people's feet and wandering hands. As the train continued southward towards London, the band entertained themselves with dalliances they never would if not for their boredom.  
Lana pulled out the copy of Alice in Wonderland. She opened it to the very first blank pages which were tinted a dingy blue from those times she had accidentally left it in the rain. Small smudges of ink from little messages her mother left her in that book are still somewhat legible, but amongst all the fading black ink there's a single signature that stands out. The signature is that of John Lennon. It was taken back in 1960 by Lana's mother when she had been just twelve. The signature is bold and chaotic much like Lennon himself, and has remained on this page long past his death. The signature itself was a little bit fuzzy having been on the same thirty year old sheet of paper all this time, but Lennon had practically branded his name into the book. little traces of his name could even be seen on the next two pages.  
Lana toyed around with the pages gingerly, more lost in thought than she was concerned with reading. She gently stretches and condenses the spine of the book until she caught a glimpse of a little folded corner that had previously belonged to a torn page. She examines the spine curiously and unfolds the tiny corner. In small chaotic handwriting the words “my love still persists 'cause time does not exist” could be read. There was something about it that couldn't be her mother's or father's handwriting, but seemingly a stranger's. Lana finds the idea kind of enthralling despite the fact that it could be a possibility that someone wrote in it during those various moments she left it on the playground when she was younger. 

The activity of the train slowed down to a low grumble as time progressed. Stop after stop more people seemed to get off rather than those who got on.  
The population of the train steadily began to mellow out to a consistent seven or so whose intentions were obviously set on London. They were of the common worker classification who made their living on the graveyard shift. Their umbrellas were readily tucked under their arms and they balanced their books and brief cases uncomfortably in front of them. They glared at the band and their massive coalition of stuff taking up so much space, but none of the band seemed to care. John was entertaining himself with his favorite pass time of dissociating wistfully out the window. Daniel was half-heartedly reading a book while drinking bitter coffee from this morning.  Tina was frantically jotting things down in her notebook. The tiredness was apparent in their eyes. They were all done for the day, but the day was not yet done with them. To put it simply, the environment of that train car couldn't be described as none other than sugarless room temperature tea. 

When they stepped off the train, as expected, it was raining. Not only was it absolutely pouring, but none of them had any money to pay a taxi. After squabbling for a good five minutes about “who’s the dumbass” for not bringing enough money, they settled on a run down hotel adjacent from the train station. The event coordinators had a hotel for all the performing bands that was probably a thousand times better than this hotel, but the band's just going to have to settle for now. They all made a mad dash for the economy hotel in the pouring rain and across traffic, carrying their equipment as quickly as they could.  
Upon entering the hotel, they are struck with the prosaic monotony of the hotel lobby. The off white ceiling tiles sag with water damage. The paper-like material seems to congeal at the corners, making the once ninety degree angles rounded and skewed. The smell is very slight, yet still reeks particularly of cigarette smoke and bleach. None of the band were so highfalutin that they could never settle for anything less than the finest, but even in that, did they find that this specific hotel was less than ideal. However, lethargy is a master persuader, and defused all of their previous hang ups, up selling the promise of a comfortable (enough) bed.  
The only room the hotel has left to offer is a single queen bed located just above the smoke room. Tina's face twists in disdain thinking about sharing that close of a space with her band mates. She loves them a lot, but loves her personal space a bit more.  
The others are far too tired to care, so they grab their things and head off to their room. Upon reaching it, their things are practically thrown to the ground, and they all crash onto the bed. 

                               △ 

"Where are we going ladies and lads?"

John's shrill voice erupted into Lana's ear, instantaneously jarring her awake with a start. Had the man not slept the entirety of yesterday, he would be in the same state as the others. Tina was pressed against the hotel room wall as Daniel's figure was spread out into all corners. Lord knows how or if John slept. As for Lana, she had found herself lying on the untrustworthy hotel ground, shrouded with obnoxious, dusty heat from the air vents. Presumably, she had fallen off or was pushed off the bed sometime in the night. 

"Answer the question."  
John says, dramatically flailing his hands at the others. The visceral fear of the day pried at each one of their fatigued bodies, willing them to stay in bed for just another minute. The promise of another minute of unconsciousness is rather comforting, however, John won't let them waste not another second. 

"The Toppermost of the Poppermost."  
They all groaned in unison. 

"Don't get too cocky, my dear."  
Daniel spoke over his shoulder. He genuinely tried to keep John's dreams on earth for the love of him, but he knows that stupid dreams never die. 

 

"Why have you got to be so sour, darling? We're going to be just as big as The Beatles. I can feel it."

There's a slight negativity in his words that clearly elucidates the sliver of doubt that John always seems to carry with him. Daniel seems to notice the shift too, and though he may be cynical, he doesn't want to hurt his friend's feelings and definitely doesn't want to taint his dreams, because, honest to goodness, John dreams for the whole band. 

"Do you want to wank off in a circle too you Beatles kiss-ass.”  
Daniel cleverly retorts in a attempts to lighten up the mood. 

John's real smile returns to his face as he was quick to his own response as well.

"Only if you're up for it, love."  
He says, concluding his statement with a wink. The subtlest traces of blush creep up the edges of Daniel's ears as he huffs and turns over on the bed. 

The sounds from the streets below gently pried at Lana's consciousness, slowly drawing herself to the window. People yelling, people running about, and people honking their cars. Lonely People. Her mind labels them as lonely people, having taken herself on her dreamy pedestal, that's what the selfish part of her dreams entail; the idea that someday they might distinguish themselves from common people. Reality, however, has its distinct ways of keeping her ego grounded.  
It still doesn't stop her from tuning out her broken-down economy class surroundings and imagining herself on a tall stage in front of thousands who all sing her songs back to her. 

/I can feel it./ She tells herself.  
/I can feel it loud and clear./

 

Lana awakens from her mid morning daydream by a sudden crash from somewhere behind her. A series of pained curses were being yelled, yet it took her awhile to pull her mind in the other direction.  
Any sense of lethargy that the band was exhibiting has now been long since abandoned from whatever disaster that left everyone in a state of disarray. John cursed to himself as he tried to clean up that scattered coffee stains riddling Tina's side of the bed and Tina could be heard from inside the bathroom also pointedly cussing at Daniel who stood just outside profusely apologizing. 

"Great start."  
Lana spoke to no one in particular.


	2. Citizens of 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Californium meets John Lennon

Given how early John had woken them up, when eight o'clock rolled around, it felt like noon. The mid morning air still felt heavy as they left, making the world around them draped in a ghostly haze. The sky glowed a foreboding purple hue, casting the street in wisteria.  
They plop their things down on the curb side, patiently waiting for the van their elusive tour manager sent for them. In the mean time, Lana counts red cars she sees pass by. Daniel stands under a lamp post, making sure to smoke away from the rest of the band.  
John is sitting there, staring at the sky, aggressively romanticizing the color of it in his mind. He has taken several mental photos. 

After a good long half hour of uncomfortable thinking in silence, the van finally pulls up. They toss in their things and file in one by one. 

The ride was peacefully silent as they watched all of the sights pass by. Nostalgia creeped into all of them, the sad longing type in which you find yourself wishing for old days back again, but you’ve long since left those days behind. Yet, there's something that feels like those days are back again, and that fleeting sense feels like they're in their own little pocket of time in which time doesn't really exist. That's the feeling that they use to write their songs. It's that feeling that you've heard the song before, and it's returning to you like a long-lost childhood friend.  
When the band plays, Lana strums the backing ostinato for the rhythm guitar and Tina sings in her gorgeously deep voice the leading vocals while simultaneously playing a slightly distorted version of the ostinato with a lot of sweeps and add ins with her lead guitar. The band plays in odd times so John keeps those unconventional beats, and he gives the beat an interesting sound by using unorthodox methods of rim tapping and excessive cymbals. Daniel ties it all in together with funk influenced bass slapping. This all started with four kids who were all too different from one another to have found each other, but yet, here they are. It's probably that lack of monotony between them that gives their music just the right amount of disillusionment with reality. 

With the thought, Lana began to piece together a musical storyline in her mind. She imagines the rhythm as a series of cursive lines that are virtually written in its own language and slowly matches up the dipping and swinging sounds of the bass, Tina's voice, and the guitar as she pieces together a song. The beat of the drums will be added later. Then the content comes into play. She shuts her eyes as she imagines the first concepts that comes to her mind. The song is like an epic poem about...about what? Lana's mind draws a blank as the rhythm climbs through her mind as she envisions herself at the piano and pieces together snippets of the keys as the tune slowly rises and swells. 

Then the first lyrics comes to her mind.

//She's changed  
Ran off to Villafranca del Cid  
Only but a spaced out kid  
Oh, She's changed  
Daisy play  
The first battles already won  
The servant leader has come  
Oh, Daisy play

She's only but the primera flor de la primavera 

My love never desists (por oro)  
My love still consists (de oro)  
My love still persists (por oro)  
Cause time does not exist//

 

Lana thinks back to the words she saw on the spine of her book, filling in those words for the chorus. Towards the middle of the song, she runs out of the English vocabulary that would carry the same weight for the rest of the song, so she places Spanish in the mix until she could find the right English words in her vocabulary. As the tune plays out in her head, she grew fond of the Spanish ad-libs and contemplated keeping them in there. She could almost hear Tina's resonant voice dragging out each syllable as the acid rock sound of her guitar contrasted with Lana's own jazz piano. Lana can //feel// it now. The whole thing would sound like 50s Hollywood on acid and blues. The keys that Lana would play on her piano courses through her mind. She thinks about the syllables that would be punctuated one beat chords and the ones that would be dragged out with a crescendo. Her mind almost reverts back to the rhythm guitar she's used to playing, but pushes it to the back of her mind. Shortly after, all the cognitive interruption being to play in. The tune of the song fades into "Killer Queen" which she also, consequently, got stuck in her head due to the nature of this new song being born. Lana could feel her palms get antsy as she abruptly began to search for her pen that she kept with her at all times. She picks up an abandoned napkin off the floor of the van despite how gross it was and began to write the last lyric. The last lyric was the part she feels as if she has to remember. It is the part in which the tone of the song slightly changes. She scribbles the last part on the napkin.

//My love never desists (por oro)  
My love still consists (de oro)  
My love still persists (por oro)  
Cause time does not exist//

And so it was written. And so it was done.

                             △

The stage. The lights are blindingly bright, and they glow a darkish pink hue, enveloping the audience in rose. The audience itself is a breed of lonely people who are hopelessly romantic and haplessly artistic, but going nowhere in the long run. They are much like the band themselves who stand a good six feet above the ground on which the audience treads. Tina stands on the frontline adorned with her guitar. John, nervously crouched at the drums. Daniel, standing triumphantly with his bass. Lana, for the time being, stationed at the piano.  
All of them except for Tina hovered over their instruments, aching to play. The adrenaline ran through all of them, willing them to start. They could almost hear the individual screams of each audience member to give them the music they ache to move their bodies to and forget about everything, but it was Tina's turn to get off into a different world. 

"Lovelies, lovlies," She gestures comically to the audience,"Will you all kindly shut the fuck up."

This only made the audience cheer louder and sway with laughter, but it eventually died down to the residual buzz that all large groups of people tend to have. 

"I want to do something I've always wanted to do, and would you please, for the love of me, go with it?"  
She says almost pleadingly. Daniel looks to John in confusion to which he nervously shrugs. They haven't known Tina as much as Lana has, and have not seen her alter ego come out very often. Tina, always so militant and intelligent, breaks off her normal cadence for her eccentric prostitute alter ego of Dolly Dagger in which her natural speaking voice drops two octaves and her Liverpudlian accent becomes posh. John and Daniel glare at the spectacle before them, trying to calculate Tina's next unrehearsed move. 

"Well, will you?"  
She asks again. The audience responds with a mixture of affirmation and laughter. 

"Alright. Here goes."  
She chimes. She looks down at her microphone. Not even Lana knows what she's about to do. Dolly Dagger is unpredictable.  
Suddenly, the adjustable part of the mic stand is ripped from its socket, causing the microphone to squeal. Tina holds the mic stand in triumph above her head, looking more alive than the band has ever seen her.  
The crowd erupts in joyous applause, recognizing it as the universal symbol of Freddie Mercury. 

"In honor of Freddie Mercury."  
She precedes. 

"Ayyyoooo."  
Her semi operatic voice erupts into its resonant vibrato that reverberates across the almost silent room. The audience of one thousand voices respond back in a chorus of reply. The world lost that great soul only but a mere two years ago, and the people are still mourning.  
She mimics Freddie Mercury's mannerisms movement for movement as she strides across the stage with unprecedented grace. The prologue of the performance done all the way back at the live aid concert of 1985 was now crashing back into fruition with the bitter sweet passion Freddie left behind. Every voice in the room is risen and the energy Tina gave with every "ayo" is being reciprocated back to her. 

"Alright!"  
She concludes.

She triumphantly turns to the rest of the band who also beam at her in admiration. 

"Let's get started, shall we?"  
Tina spoke to the audience, but was addressing the band. 

Lana pumped the beginning chords of "Jailhouse Rock" on her piano which the audience instantly recognizes. They all swell and sway jubilantly, almost violently, when Tina begins to sing. Her voice quickly transitioned from operatic to gruff and bluesy.  
Lana's fingers go up and down without a slip-up despite there being quite a few at rehearsal. John's drumming is pulsating throughout the stage causing an almost deafening energy across the crowd. Daniel's bass is marginally different than the original. They can feel it in their gut. The bass is quite literally, vibrating their organs out.  
But then something odd happens. The lights suddenly snapped off for a millisecond and the sound cuts off. It happened almost so quickly that it was almost unnoticeable. But with the fraction of the second that everyone was blinking, the pink hue had turned to simple, basic white light. The spotlights became so blinding they could no longer seem to see the audience anymore. They uncomfortably fidgeted in the increasing heat of the stage lights, trying their best not to tip the audience off that something wasn't right.  
The stage lights begin to die down slowly by the middle of the guitar solo, but the band noticed something more off putting. The audience sounded different. The energy wasn't as reckless. The dancing wasn't as promiscuous. Lana could see Tina at the front of the stage glaring down in confusion, but the intensity of the stage lights were normal now, so they continue to play. 

The next song is their own original: A fifties inspired sci-fi song about a rover on mars. Though, the underlying message of the song is a lot darker. John wrote it about a man who is planning on committing suicide to be in a world of his own delusions. 

Adjusting his bass, Daniel pumped out the mellow backbeat. An R&B progression ostinato is added in methodically, getting increasingly louder with every iteration. Tina's voice spills through as a mixture between modern and old R&B. The crowd has become oddly silent. None of the band is sure if it is due to the nature of the song or not.

 

//Rover, the rain's not over  
It still pours here on earth  
But there I know you're dry  
Rover, we're under pressure  
Mars' atmosphere is thin  
Wait till euphoria kicks in

We'll overdose on sleep till our minds come through, rover. //

The way in which the lyrics slide off her tongue is almost hypnotic. The highly melodic, repetitious tune added to the heaviness that seems to cut into everyone's mind like a hot knife through butter. The underlying message of the song added to the affect. 

Once the band was finishes with their set, the audience erupts into both affirming applause as well as a lively buzz of questioning mumbles.  
Lana's heart speeds up as she picks up her head from her piano for the first time since they had begun. There was something fuzzier and quieter about their reverb that Lana couldn't quite piece together. Slowly, she traces the cord leading from Tina's guitar to a long since discontinued iteration of quite possibly the most famous vintage amp: the Fender Super amp, made in 1948. Her eyes trace upstage across their now convoluted and foreign set up. The markings of their equipment range from 1945 to 1962. Everything's so grossly out of date, she isn't sure what half of it even is. 

Lana gives questioning looks to her band, and is met with equally as confused glances. But before any of them can study the equipment more closely, they are ushered off the stage, giving way to the next act of the night. As they were leaving, they heard the name of the next band being announced 'The Crossed Baronesses,' one of the biggest feminist bands of the 1960s. 

The scene back stage was even more panic inducing. Lana's heart skyrockets as she sees the scene pan out in front of her. Everything is far too old to look this new. There's not a single bit of corruption on the amps. There's not a single bit of rust on the jukebox.  
The band moves slowly, weaving in and out through the hordes of busy people while trying to make sense of things. Lana cringes to herself when she begins to see the distress begin to dawn on John, and his breathing becomes heavy and labored. She outstretched her hand to grab his which he gladly took and squeezed tightly. 

"I was trying to find you guys."  
A familiar voice rang in front of them from just down the hallway. The voice is all too familiar and it practically makes the band leap out of their skin. The breath caught in John's throat as he watched a manic figure approach them pushing people out of their way. 

"What even was that? I mean that was amazing! Who even are you guys? Why are you dressed like that?"  
Standing before them is a man known as none other than John Winston Lennon, who is currently covered in sweat and adorned in an ill-fitted suit, bombarding the band with questions as if he were just some manic fan. The band stands in still mortification at the sight before them. They had only ever seen the man in still image or grainy video, but now he stands here bold, lively, and real. The band couldn't handle the revelation of ever seeing the man in any other dimension than 2D. So, at best, all they could do was stand and stare which is exactly what they did. 

"Goodness, you guys look pale as ghosts. Playing's a real rush, but I've never seen anyone this mortified!"

"Uh, well. I'm Tina, that's Daniel, Lana, and John, and we're a band called Californium. Thanks for the compliments. We’re honored.”  
Tina's voice cracked at the last part, but  she didn't give any hint of nervousness other than that given the revelation to all of them that they just time travelled. 

"Your name's John too, huh? I mean, whose name isn't John around these parts, but still; it's nice to meet another one."  
Lennon extended his hand to shake John's jittery one. He shook hands with the rest of the band as well, choosing not to pay attention to their odd behavior. 

"Your rendition of Jailhouse Rock was quite extraordinary, and the song after that was so odd. I've never heard anything like it. It could be its own genre!"  
Lennon exclaimed. You could tell he is a bit off into his own, trying to interpret it as an art piece that's meant to look closely at and scrutinize, but his mind drew a blank. He needs to hear the song again to get the full effect. He needs to hear all their songs, but then the thought occurred to him. 

"How would you guys like to meet my band and our manager? They also thought your sound was exceptionally odd, and would probably like to talk over lunch, perhaps.”  
John suggests hopefully. 

"Uh, su—," Lana cut John off. 

"We really need to get our things together, but we would love to meet you guys in twenty minutes or so over tea. Does that sound alright?"  
Lana wasn't sure where the confidence was coming from, but it would give them time to figure things out. She mentally cursed herself for agreeing to meet them, though, for fear of it doing something drastic like changing the future.  
She lead the band out to the curb side where they had just been only but an hour and a half ago. London looks so different. The cars going by are shiny old cars, but they're new for the given time. 

The tears that John was holding in now spilled out as he sat on the curb. 

"Guys, we fucking time travelled."  
He's the first one to say it out of all of them. They all were thinking it, but couldn't bring themselves to say it.  
They all sat in silence for a while until Tina spoke next. 

"So, this could be some weird extreme case of mass hysteria that only involves us four or something tragic happened and we're all in a coma."  
Tina is freaking out too. She doesn't believe actually believe in these theories. She doesn't actually believe in anything anymore. 

"We're not in a coma."  
Lana states simply. 

"If this is possible, then we can't rule out anything."  
This statement spiraled the group into a fit of arguing right then and there. 

 

"I say we disappear from civilization. If we aren't supposed to exist now, we technically don't have to exist now."  
Tina says deadpan. 

Daniel paced around fiddling for a cigarette from his back pocket. In the process, some of the contents of his wallet spill out into the cement. Daniel cussed to himself, getting on his knees to pick up the scattered things. Then he notices the state of his belongings, namely, his license. His photo was him, surely, but considerably different. In this photo, his hair wasn't down to his shoulders, rather, it was short and gelled back into a neat quiff. He also looked older than twenty in this photo, seemingly a lot wiser. But the date under the photo was the most alarming. Sure, he was still twenty, born in July twenty- fourth, but rather than the date being listed as 1973; the date listed was 1940.  
Daniel's breath caught in his throat as a sudden pang of realization flooded through him. They exist in this time. They probably lead completely different lives, had different friends, and had different dreams in this time. Had the prior iterations of themselves just get yanked out of existence or did they just switch places and now there's some group of sixties clad teens that have taken their spot in 1993? 

"Guys."  
Daniel tried to summon their attention, but the other three members are too busy tearfully squabbling with one another. 

"Guys!"  
Daniel tried again more sternly, but he still couldn't get their attention. 

"Guys, for fucks sake, take a look at your licences."

This statement stirred the others from their argument.  
Each of the members of the band have their turn examining their foreign identities and recoiling at the bitter shock. These people in these photos are separate souls, but somehow the same individual and that revelation is, to say the least, disillusioning. 

"So we do exist in this time."  
Tina spoke seemingly more angrily rather than mortified. 

"So we do exist in this time! Ohmyfuckinggod!"

"So what the hell even happened? Did we just up and poof out of existence then end up here?"  
Tina embarked on a five minute long tirade, asking the questions that no one could answer all the while John Lennon is waiting to have lunch with them. 

"—sandwiches, bloody sandwiches. We're finally going to answer the age old question of whether John Winston fucking Lennon eats his sandwiches with bloody crisps or not."  
At this point Tina's rant was long past the point of nonsensical ranting and was now formidably insane.  
Tina concludes her rant and plops down on the pavement next to John,  
leaning her head on his shoulder. 

Lana sighs, releasing the breath that she didn't know she was holding. 

"So, now that we've resolved our emotional turmoil, has anyone got any suggestions?"  
Lana three her hands up in surrender, not expecting anyone to answer. John  stood up, removing his hood that had been drawn over his face to hide his tears. His face was stoic, but there was the slightest tinge of a smile that was tugging at the corners of his lips. 

"So, we exist in this time. Y'know what, guys. I'm going to be honest. Life back home sucked for me. I wasn't sure if this band was even gonna make it, but now we've been fucked up the ass with this opportunity and I say we don't waste it. How about we really do some damage? I can make my life mean something for once."  
John suggested, tears still in his eyes. John is so fragile, and so full of life, but life gets heavy for those who are full of it. The band would do anything for him, even this. The decision wasn't too hard, though. There is still a degree of nihilism that they all have that tells them nothing really matters, and that's the part that they hold on to. They realize that, in time, they'll realize their mistakes. They figure that they know the detriment of the tidal wave of regret that may crash over them, however, they also know that drowning is better than thinking at all. 

"Honestly, what the fuck."  
Daniel says as some sort of affirmation. 

"Yeah, okay."  
Chimes in Lana. 

"I'm going to regret this."  
Tina adds. 

"It's set then. As of now, we're citizens of the year 1962."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I cuss a fuckton.


	3. The Corner Pub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Californium meets the Beatles

The resolve was rash and compulsory, but for ages the band found themselves in the humdrum stagnation of being an utter and complete rule follower, wall flower, common patron. Though, somehow, what ever force dictates the universe managed to bend the rules for them, so are they really going to pass up the chance to act a fool? Of course not.  
The band sat in the aftermath of their resolve there in that parking lot for ages before any of them made a move.  
Lana made her way across the parking lot to the back entrance, waiting for the band to join her. They rose from their posts fearfully as if they were dawning on their own executions, but proceeded forward, nonetheless. 

Upon reentering the building, the sudden flash of a camera stuns the band out of their wits. A stout bald man wielding a camera stood in front of them, notebook clasped in his hand. 

“My apologies. You lot weren’t prepared for that one, I suppose. May I please get another for The Daily Telegraph please?”

The man emphasized on the prestigious title, figuring that the band wouldn’t want anything more than to get publicity from one of London’s largest newspaper providers, but this assumption was dead wrong. 

“Apologies, we’re on a tight schedule, so—“ “Well, can I at least get a statement on your most...unorthodox stage introduction?”

The man interrupted, quirking his eyebrow expectantly. 

//How had they appeared to everyone in the audience?//

Lana briefly held her mouth agape before regaining her grasp on a cohesive sentence. 

“Have a great day, sir. We’re going to be late.”  
She responds curtly, motioning the band forward. She wasn’t necessarily talking about their lunch plans with the Beatles, but rather was trying to get this guy off their tail. They had almost forgotten about their conversation with Lennon due to the recent revelation that the audience may have seen something that they really shouldn’t have. Their hearts were racing so fast, they couldn’t even functionally think. Every little noise, sight, or movement around them felt like little hail stones beating at their senses.  
As the band walked away, they heard the unmistakable sound of a camera charging, then a damning little click. 

△

“Would ya look at that; it’s the band of the hour.”

A soft voice echoed from down the back stage hallway. They knew that voice from anywhere. Almost too hastily, they all turned around to see that it really was indeed //Paul McCartney.// There he stood, black-haired and youthful, wearing that award-winning grin. His hair was slicked to the side, somewhat in between his teddy boy look and the iconic mop-top look. 

Tina found herself almost wanting to suffocate the man in a bone-crushing hug, but maintained enough composure to introduce herself and the band. 

“It’s wonderful to meet you all, I’m Paul McCartney. You’ve already met John, I suppose, but I don’t think you’ve met the others.”

“Lads!”  
Paul shouted gruffly down the hallway. 

The two suited men that were slumped against the wall, engaged in quiet conversation, peeked their heads up, revealing their faces to be that of Ringo Starr and George Harrison.  
Ringo’s face looked even more radiant in real life than it already did in photos. His hair was at a similar state as Paul’s was, brushed to the side all semi-teddy boy like. He held out his hand to shake each one of theirs and they found that he did, indeed, have blisters on his fingers.  
George’s aura was considerably darker than Ringo’s appeared to be. He seemed to be, quite obviously, regarding the band calculatedly, analyzing their overall appearance. But, he didn’t seem to be cold in the least, but rather welcoming.  
Though, they all, both Californium and The Beatles, found themselves engaging in easy going camaraderie and pleasant conversation; the band couldn’t shake that feeling of none of this being real. They had never seen them so animated, so young, so alive before.

“I must say, everything about your act eerie, but intriguing.”  
George remarked as they made their way to the entrance, looking for Lennon and Brian. The band followed closely behind, the anxiety biting at their minds. None of them dared to question any further, though. Instead, they all opted for the same resolve that they often did in times of great ordeal: pretend they’re alright.  
Though, they didn’t find themselves pretending for very long as Ringo seemed to bring a genuine smile to all their faces for the short period between back stage and the main lobby.  
By the time they had arrived at the lobby, Ringo had informed them of the infamous burning condom story. Even though the anecdote was well known, coming from him, the story felt brand new and all the more amusing.  
Both Californium and The Beatles’ arrival in the main hall didn’t go unnoticed. A mix of curious and admiring eyes followed the group, but the three Beatles didn’t mind. As for Californium, the attention was foreign, yet still somehow comforting in an inconceivable way. It was almost as if they weren’t //lonely people// anymore. 

“Hey Eppy, it’s that band from earlier.”  
Ringo announced as they came up on Lennon and Brian who were stationed at the bar. Lennon was nursing a simple coke while Brian sipped on something a little stronger. 

Brian faces the band, meeting their eyes with a warm grin. The energy he emitted couldn’t be described as anything other than gentle and inviting. 

“Hello, I’m Brian Epstein, manager of The Beatles.”  
Brian shook each of their hands, gauging their appearance closely. His gaze didn’t seem abrasive in the least, but just like the others, he was simply trying to figure them out. The man had genuinely enjoyed the band’s performance, but as a manager, he was more closely regarding the joint marketing opportunities and mass success that having both these bands under his administration will have. Though, he couldn’t be too brash, so he asked the first simple question that came to mind. 

“What is the name of your band?” 

“Um—oh shit fuck—the name of our band is...what’s the name of our band? Californium! Yes, Californium, like the fucking element. Atomic number ninety-eight.”  
Tina ungracefully stutters out. 

The amount of nervous boorishness from Tina surprised everyone given the fact that she never exuded quite this amount of overt impoliteness, however, this seemed to have caused the members of the Beatles to shed their fake posh attitudes.  
Hardy laughter erupted from the five suit clad men, uncharacteristically of their previously reserved behavior. Except for Ringo, of course, who had maintained his natural light-hearted disposition from the moment he met them. 

“So, lunch?”  
Lennon reminded after everyone seemed to be well aquatinted with one another. 

The environment outside held the sour note of midsummer’s intensity. The summer’s in downtown London city were just as grueling as they are now, hot and heavy and full of rainy days. 

People, clad in their sixties attire, moved fleetly up and down the boulevard, different intentions in mind. Children stopped and stared through the windows of stores lining the sidewalks while others moved briskly around their coalitions to wherever their places of work were. They wore shift dresses and fedoras, not yet knowing the likes of the over-padded blazers and sparkly hair clips that the future was yet to bring. Rocket-rimmed convertibles blew by them, followed by larger hordes of far less glamorous older models of bug-eyed Fords from the decade before. Each owner of those cars not knowing how much the value was going to appreciate over the years. 

Right before them, the band was witnessing a panorama of the pop culture that made a such a large leap for postmodern ideas which practically founded the rebellion culture on which their music was built. And in that revelation, they finally seemed to compute the reality of it all. To the Beatles and Brian, every sight they passed was only but a mundanity, but to the band, it was like a museum. 

They suddenly make a sharp turn into a corner pub and the band follows.  
The pub itself is homely and uncharacteristic of the commercial businesses around there. 

They all take a seat at a large table situated at the very back corner of the restaurant. They squeeze into the booth as best as nine people could, leaving John uncomfortably pressed against Lennon. John blushes at their close proximity, hoping Lennon wouldn’t notice. He was use to platonic touch with his friends, but this touch was different, more thrilling. John never really thought of his obsession with Lennon as anything romantic until now as he’s sat thigh-to-thigh with the man. 

“Hello, blondie.”  
Lennon quips to him so softly, so only he could hear. This only deepened his blush, but before he could respond, a waitress was at their table ready to take their order. 

The conversation flowed freely from every member of the table and it ranged from music to politics to general pop culture, which fortunately, due to the band’s previous obsession with this decade, they had no trouble weighing in on. Surprisingly, the band had found themselves in the midst of Lennon’s spirited rant about one of the most troubling aspects of America which was its overt discrimination and refusal to bypass laws nullifying segregation.  
For Californium, they had always seen Lennon painted in the media as “the legendary asshole” who didn’t seem to care for other groups like women or minorities, but that reputation seemed to be challenged by how boldly he was talking about those issues.  
He may have been a hypocrite, but at least he’s self aware. Sometimes cognitive dissonance gets the better of him, given that he’s only human. 

John found himself gazing at Lennon with even more desire than he had before, but refused to entertain the thought of being with him. 

//I’d be kissing a dead man.//  
He reasoned in his mind. 

“I couldn’t help but notice that you all sound very Liverpudlian. Is that where you’re from?”  
Brian says, changing gears after Lennon’s tirade. 

That was an aspect of their backstory the band had foolishly not thought of while they were in the parking lot, but thankfully Daniel was on the uptake with a quick explanation. 

“Yes, we’re originally from Liverpool, but we tend to travel from post to post a lot, so we’re not at any of the localities very often.”  
Daniel states. 

“Huh...odd.”  
Brian huffs, reminding them of their unfamiliar appearance. 

“Well, how would you explain your strange fashion choices?”

 

“Um, well, you see, we make our own clothes.”  
Daniel gracelessly responds. Tina sends a sharp look across the the table at him to which he shyly shrugged his shoulders. 

A smile reaches Brian’s face, one that he’s trying to hide. He remembers meeting the Beatles in a similar state: just a rag-tag group of kids who didn’t know how to dress. Even though he had just met the band and had not signed anything official with them, he was still contemplating what sort of attire he might put them in. 

“How would you explain your stage entrance?”  
This was the question that the band had not yet sorted through. They didn’t even know how they did their stage entrance. 

“Well, we like to make our entrances memorable, so we have our secrets. I’m curious, just for later notes; how did it look like to you guys in the audience?”  
Tina expertly skates around the question. 

“After the lights came back on and everyone saw how strange you guys looked, I’m just going to be honest, people thought that you lot were a couple of commie terrorists, but then you started playing that strange song and I guess that made people stop and listen for goddamn moment.”  
George says, animatedly. 

“Though, just out of curiosity, why’d you guys start in the middle of the guitar solo for Jailhouse Rock?”

Suddenly, the band was piecing it all together. They must have suddenly appeared here when the lights were off and while they were in the middle of that guitar solo. They all were somewhat relieved upon the revelation that no one actually saw anything concerning, but rather it all just seemed like a stage act. 

“We started in the middle with the intention of scaring people out of their wits and confusing the hell out of ‘em. I assume it worked?”  
Tina ruefully chuckled, relaxing into the seat. 

“It sure did. Poor Ringo couldn’t handle it. He damn near pissed his pants. Isn’t that right Ringo?”

George caught Ringo haplessly off guard. He was staring into space, not really paying attention. 

“Hm? Oh yeah, sure.”  
Ringo stutters out once he comes back to fruition. Brian side-eyes George before joining in to the group’s shared laughter. 

More discussion concerning their music drives the conversation. The questions are mostly having to do with their influences, but they had to watch their words since many of the people that influenced them haven’t gotten famous yet or haven’t even been born yet.  
The conversation was so animated amongst the group that they stayed in the pub and the food and drinks kept coming. George didn’t seem as shy and reserved as he was before, showing his bright smile at multiple points in the night. Paul hadn’t dropped his suave persona fully, but he still cracked many back-roads jokes. Ringo seemed to be the most relaxed of all the group, telling the band of their various mischievous anecdotes. Lennon mostly sat and absorbed the conversation, but would throw in a valuable piece of insight every so often. Brian was the most engaging, talking about the band’s various ways of musical experimentation and how they saw it come into play while they were on stage. 

“Do you have a manager?”  
The question was business proposal, but to Californium is was practically a marriage proposal.  
They figured that for this time, their original manager is only seven years old right now, so there’s no contract to be violated per se. 

“No, we don’t.”

By the end of the night, Californium had solidified a position at the recording studio tomorrow so both the Beatles and Brian can review their material. They had sat at that table for a short five hours and it was eight o’clock by the time the band had even made an attempt to get up.  
John’s food hangover was so heavy that Lennon had to help him up by his waist much to his embarrassment. Though, the feeling of Lennon’s hand wrapped around his waist was quite comforting, more sensual than touch was from any of his friends.  
Both bands waited outside the pub at the corner for a taxi to come. Californium took that chance to review their licenses to find out where they lived in this reality.

△ 

After bidding their last farewell to the Beatles, Daniel and Lana took the same taxi southward. Both of them, according to their licenses, live in Brighton while Tina and John live in Buxted. These addresses struck them as odd, being that they were never all that rich to afford the upper middle class homes in those areas. This prompted the pressing question in all of their minds pertaining to exactly how different the lives they lead must have been. Possibly, they had been more successful, more driven; maybe they weren’t musicians at all. The endless possibilities were rushing in, creasing at the mind’s tendency to exaggerate the extent of their newfound lives and they asked themselves those daunting questions. 

//Am I a dentist or a clown? Am I a beggar or a socialite? Am I lawyer or a criminal?//

They found that their thoughts could only dip into the extreme instances given the extreme circumstance, but little by little their life comes to fruition with every house they pass until the taxi stops.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Californium finds out their new lives.

The band took taxis through towns that the 1962 versions knew all too well, while for them; the sights couldn’t be stranger. The neighborhoods they passed by were their own respective Penny Lanes and the open fields they passed were their personal Strawberry Fields to the prior version of themselves, but to the 1993 versions, they were only but lots of tall grass and subdivisions of cookie-cutter houses that belong to individuals they have no recollection of.  
Lana arrived at her home first, leaving Daniel to rest in the suffocating silence. The air where she stood was clearer, it filled her lungs with easy breaths; It intoxicated her with the smell of flowers and ocean salt. She walked up her dirt driveway to the front door of her small crooked white home, sat upon a hill, surrounded by a forest garden, and in complete isolation. The bugs out here were louder and she couldn't hear the cars pass by. She always had tentative plans in the back of her mind to drop her life to live in the countryside in a little house on a hill. She never really thought her imagination had any room for reality, but here she stood, in the middle of the place she went to in her mind.

 

Though, over the sounds of bugs chirping, she could hear thunderous crashing, coming from somewhere over the pitch of the hills. She walked toward the noise, glaring into the dark at the untrustworthy path in her wake. The hills seemed to dramatically drop out of sight. She continued to the top, to the edge of where the ground gave out and peered ahead only to witness the vast mass of ocean that covered the expanse of her vision. In the dark, the waves were as black as oil. The swell of the tide looked as if a monster was creeping under a black blanket of silk and dissipating once it collided with the rocks.  
“God, if you’re out there, you must be kidding me.”  
Lana whispered into the darkness before returning to her house.

//She’s a real nowhere girl//

△

 

Tina, Lana, And John regrouped in the recording studio while they waited for Daniel and The Beatles to arrive. They had all agreed to be at the recording studio an hour before the Beatles were, but Daniel was nowhere in sight. Still, the three of them opted to spend that extra time fucking around. 

“Soup,” Tina said, gathering a guitar onto her shoulders “And a half eaten sandwich.”

“They were just sitting there on the kitchen table. Did 1962 me just go poof in the middle of lunch? If so, then time is a rude-ass.”  
She continued in disbelief. 

“I don’t know, man. But at my place, I own fucking goats. I don’t know how to take care of goats.”  
John says, searching for a pair of drumsticks. 

“What do goats even eat?” 

“They eat hay, you stupid city-slicker.”  
Tina says, pulling on her best southern American accent. 

“Shut it, shit-kicker.”  
John responds in a similar manner. 

“If I’m a shit-kicker, then you’re a boot-licker ‘cause you’re always takin’ the shit.”

“Now you wait just a diddly darn second, son—“

John is interrupted by a harsh chord on the piano reverberating off the studio walls.  
“Will you all kindly shut the fuck up.” Lana says, mimicking Tina’s stage alter from yesterday. 

Before any of them could respond, Lana began to play the beginning sequence of “Bohemian Rhapsody.”  
Tina rushes to join Lana at the piano bench, singing the opening harmony. They giggled throughout the intro. Lana’s piano playing got more intense as the climax of the song drew near, she jammed her hands across the keys in a similar manner as Freddie would have: delicate but demanding. She felt the tears well up in her eyes for the man she still missed. 

“I don’t want to die, I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all.”  
Even though John couldn’t sing for shit, he had also joined in to the tear fest. Lana was about to go into the operatic section before it was interrupted by a jarring slam at the entrance. 

Daniel rushes in, disheveled and red-eyed. He looked like he had been crying for a while. 

“Are you guys insane! Do not—do not play music from—“ Daniel lowered his voice as he said the last part. 

“Do not play music from the future, understood? They’re right here.”

Shortly after Daniel’s tirade, Brian came in followed by the four Beatles. 

“We came in towards the end of your song and we didn’t hear much of it. From what I can tell, it sounded rather passionate. Do you mind starting it from the beginning?”  
Brian asks innocently enough. 

“No—I mean, um, that material is personal.” Tina says, wiping a tear from her eye. 

“I understand.”  
Brian says genuinely. He knows that each of the boys have their personal songs that they feel as if shouldn’t be known for the time being; songs that need to take a while and grow, so he wasn’t too surprised by the band’s unwillingness to show “their” song. 

“But we’ve got other stuff too.” 

They played some of their greatest pub hits. Things they played at the local diners and at personal parties. They pulled out all stops on their most experimental songs. Accompanying the strange assortment of song were titles such as “interplanetary imperialism,” “spaced out kid,” and “paracosmos.” The likes of these songs, detailed sci-If concepts derived from the space race, which for this time, is just coming into fruition, but what hadn’t occurred yet, was the aesthetic aspects of space. No one would have a “space aesthetic” until Jimi Hendrix. No one would //really// have a space aesthetic until David Bowie.  
Tina used her voice and guitar to mimic a rocket ship blasting off and Lana used her piano as a facilitator for the narration of the intergalactic conquest that were these songs. 

“You guys have got enough songs for an album!”  
Brian announced over the speaker.

They briefly looked at each other in confusion before registering the fact that twelve song albums weren’t a widespread thing yet. They only had seven songs. 

After leaving the studio, Brian discussed with the band the clauses of a contract that is to be drawn up for them by his lawyer in a matter of days. 

Though, the excitement the band felt was short lived. 

Daniel walked behind the rest of the group, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lip. 

“Hey, man. This morning was pretty uncharacteristic of you. What’s the deal?” Lana asks, putting an arm around his shoulder. 

“The first thing I did when the taxi took me back to my house in this reality, was go to the attic to get some answers.”

Tears welled in his eyes, threatening to spill over. 

“I’ve come to find out that in this reality, my mother is still alive.”


	5. Chapter 5

Their heads have almost been torn from their bodies given the whiplash of another reality, but although they’re all stumbling around headless, they seem to be fairing quite well, all except for Daniel. 

This particular summer night, cold air seemed to spindle the warm temperatures, making him shiver. Over the harsh wind, somewhere down the road, there’s a pub where a song is playing. 

//Everybody’s doing a brand new dance now  
Come on baby, do The Loco-motion//

He absentmindedly sung along, an old song so new. It seemed so wrong. Everything seemed all too long ago to be happening now. This summer should have slipped away long before he was born and that song playing in the pub should’ve never even graced his ears before he was supposed to exist.  
The signs of the times are so overt, it makes him sick: pies in the windows, one car garages, children playing outside even after the street lamps come on. 

Every sign of the passage of time was out to get him. The fall of the sun behind the houses didn’t make it better. It made him closer to sleep, but also closer to the day he was born, what will he do when it’s July 24, 1973 and his mother birthed him. He’ll be a newborn, he’ll be a 33 year old, or maybe he just won’t be at all. 

“Listen, I’m not good with these type things, but I know you’re not doing as well as the others.” 

Daniel hadn’t realized Paul was there and was far too dazed to answer him, so he didn’t. 

McCartney grimaced and shoved his hands in his pockets, absentmindedly fiddling with his loose inner buttons as he leaned against the doorway. 

“Got a cigarette?”

Daniel passed back a cigarette and his lighter without looking away from the ground. Paul huddled against the wind to light his cigarette, but it blew out of his fingers before he could. He was too awkward to ask for another one.  
In fact, he was very much so too awkward for any of this, emotions and such were too complex for him, but a try didn’t hurt anyone. 

Daniel hadn’t meant to make it obvious that he wasn’t happy, though he had quite overtly. The others were congregated in the dining room of McCartney’s small flat, duking it out over some small-tailed debate while he was sitting on the front door steps, brooding as he always is, but this time he didn’t really want to be alone. 

“I’m kinda just off into my own a bit.”  
Daniel concedes. 

A distant response, a delightfully distant response that he left in the air for the subject to immediately be dropped. 

He is a good enough read of people, he knows that McCartney’s concern was out of politeness. The gesture is genuine, however, the divide between cordiality and care is apparent. 

Paul wasn’t trying to get too close to these strangers, but they seemed to have such and odd magnitude that it simply pulled his mind in, so he resorted to the only conversation he knew. 

“Why’d you choose bass?”  
McCartney asked.

“People don’t appreciate it enough, I don’t think.”

“Well, why would they? It’s quiet. Very quiet. Strain your ears sometimes just to hear it. It just fills the empty space in between notes. I wanted to play the guitar, but my other mates’ egos are too big.”  
McCartney sorrowfully chuckled. 

Daniel was somewhat expecting an answer like this, but he wasn’t going to tell Paul about how far bass has come, about how there’s bass solos now, about funk music, or anything like that. 

“But it’s nice, you know, hearing it by itself. It sounds deeper than anything you can hear with your ears, that’s why I like playing it.”  
McCartney added suddenly. He somewhat thought the statement sounded stupid, sort of like something one of Lennon’s stupid existentialist friends would say, but for some reason that’s still a mystery to him, it felt alright. 

“The bass is more important than people think. I try tellin’ them that and they tell me I’m compensating, but it’s true. I don’t know how to say it, I just think—“  
McCartney trailed off, not wanting to sound as manic as he felt he was being. 

“I think Rock n’ Roll’s pretty empty without it.”

McCartney nodded, giving the phrase the slightest thought for a moment, a short lived moment. 

“Though, you don’t really get any girls when you play bass. Can you believe that the fuckin’ washboard player got more than me? Why? He’s an asshole, that’s why.”  
McCartney grumbled somewhat to himself. 

“Well, if you’re writing songs, what do the girls matter? You’re gettin’ paid. Took me the longest time to figure out how to write songs so I’m not just sitting on my ass, strumming along while my other mates are making the real money.”

The sky has gotten dark and cloudy by now. It threatened to rain at any second. The pub just down the road was playing another song now. //Hound Dog.//

“You’re right. Also, the local girls are getting boring now anyway. I liked the German ones enough, but I think I might like the American ones more. They’re more cultured.”  
McCartney sighed, taking a spot next to Daniel on the doorstep. 

“That’s debatable.”  
Daniel mumbled. 

“Then debate me.”

Daniel chuckled, leaning his back against the cold stone of the stairs. He caught sight of McCartney, looking somewhat less bright eyed than he is in the pictures. He looked rather serene, maybe even wiser. 

Daniel had only ever known southern American girls from his brief stint in Georgia, but by God did he swear they were the worst. 

“They’re not as open-minded as you think.”  
He spoke in disdain, keeping his view with the times as to not cross any lines that haven’t become known yet. 

“They don’t like Rock n’ Roll very much. They call it ‘jungle music’ unless it’s Elvis. The prudes. I just don’t like ‘em.” 

He grimaced at what he said. Some arbitrary history lesson to someone who’s living in that very history doesn’t make any difference to what McCartney has on his mind, the American Dream, the American Girls, and the American Experience. Seeing this McCartney, Daniel knew that this one had not yet grown into the world outside this locality, so he said the only words he felt like he can use. 

“They’re a good shag, though.”  
Daniel sighed, handing Paul another cigarette. 

Paul gladly took it and put it behind his ear. He didn’t feel like much of a smoke at the moment; he liked the conversation too much for that. 

“A good shag, huh? I don’t know how much I’ll care about that. I’ve been holding out that I might find a love there, not just a good shag. Land of opportunity, you know.”

The sky was dark now and the houses stood staunchly behind the trees which flimsily danced around in the harsh wind. A hard gust blew, tearing off the weather vein on a nearby neighbors house, but neither of them made a move to get up. 

“You’ll find your girl.” 

Suddenly silence. Their other reality excursion has been filled with so many sudden bouts of silence that he really is beginning to come to terms with how important filling the silence really is. The exuberant conversation from inside stopped, there was no sound of cars passing by, there was no whistle of the wind, only nothingness. Then as suddenly as it started, a deep thumping filled their ears as if it were a literal bass being manically strummed. The sound grew behind them, making them both turn their heads.


End file.
